War Heroes
by le petit lionne
Summary: She was supposed to be a hero. So why was she barely surviving?


**Just a little something I cooked up in-between chapters of other things. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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**war heroes.**

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"I just don't know why I try so hard to keep a grown woman sober." She'd said it as if she were talking to herself, seemingly ignoring the young-looking man seated across from her. He barely noticed, both of their eyes fixated on the young- looking woman walking hurriedly down the opposite sidewalk.

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It had been six months. Six short months since the worst year of their lives. She'd been imprisoned and abused, and her daughter walked the Earth in order to save them all. He'd lost his best friend _and_ the only link to his homeland all in one day, but neither one of them spoke of that.

He'd spent six months travelling alone, waiting for the small, silver device to ring- telling him to come on down. Imagine his surprise when it actually rang on a Wednesday afternoon, of all days.

"Hello there, Martha Jones!" He said, ecstatic at the prospect of seeing her again.

"Doctor?" That absolutely _wasn't_ Martha Jones.

"Francine? Where's Martha? What's happened? Is she alright?" He was frantic.

Blimey, he'd just stopped one invasion. Now, Martha was in some type of grave danger. She had to be if Francine was calling. Francine saw him with a mixture of gratitude and abhorrence- equal parts _'thank you for saving the planet'_ and _'stay the fuck away from my family.'_

"No.. Well, yes. Martha's ok but… Doctor, could you meet me somewhere?" They agreed on a time and place and within seconds he was materializing in the alley next to the small restaurant. He decided to skip ahead. If something was wrong with Martha, he needed to know now.

They breezed past the small talk, skimming over the _'how have you been'_ and the _'how's the family_'… neither one of them really meaning it.

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"She's not doing well, Doctor. You have to do something. You have to fix her. She won't talk about it, which is fine if that's how she wants to deal-"

He cut her off, almost boiling with incredulousness. "''Fix her? So you think she should just get over it? Francine, I know we went through a lot, but none of us could have done what Martha did. None of us."

"I know! Doctor, she's my daughter. My baby!" She was crying now. "She's in pain. She's not coping. She's not dealing. She's not even _trying_! She's become someone totally different. You traveled with her for God knows how long. You tell me: is that the Martha you knew?"

Francine Jones was many things, but she was no fool and when she had a point, she had a point.

Martha was, by no means, a 'run o' the mill', happy-go-lucky person, but she had an enviable, single-minded determination with a desire to make people better. Above all, she loved life, loved living, and loved being human. Hearing that she'd lost that lust for life, that was worse than he expected. He'd expected her to have a hard time, maybe some nightmares. But giving up? That wasn't Martha's style, but it was all his fault in so many ways.

She was staring out the window and he let his eyes follow hers. Across the street, a slim figure walked briskly. She looked like same Martha to the untrained eye, but he noted the obvious differences and it broke his hearts.

She was dressed in black jeans and boots with a grey long-sleeved T-shirt and her dark hair fell loosely down her back, but her it was her demeanor that had changed. She stumbled down the street, shuffling dejectedly as she searched through the purse she held awkwardly in her hands. She shook the bag and then continued her search, obviously frustrated. A child rode his bike past her and she stopped suddenly, her dark eyes following the boy only for a moment.

He knew the look. He'd practically invented the look. It was the look that said she'd just seen a walking corpse: someone she'd seen die, their body broken and burned, now living and breathing. But to someone at the eye of the storm, that didn't stop them from being dead.

He heard Francine mumble something about keeping her daughter sober, but he only half listened.

Martha seemed to shake off the feeling, and continued down the street and resuming her frantic search.

She'd found her prize once she reached the corner. She pulled a cigarette out of the small carton, but then seemed to shout an expletive when her lighter didn't work. She crossed the street to the pub, stopped to talk to someone outside (he lit her cigarette), and stepped inside. From his seat at the restaurant, his hearts sank to the pit of his stomach.

"She left her heart and soul in that bloody box of yours. Please. You owe her this." He did. He owed her more, but deep in his hearts he knew, she might be too broken to fix.

He dragged his eyes away to look at Francine. Her watering hazel eyes landing on his chocolate brown ones. She didn't say anything else but those hazel orbs seemed to beg him, scream at him to bring her baby back. His eyes held less conviction. He'd lived long enough to know that sometimes, you couldn't pull someone from the brink of destruction- especially when they'd already decided to throw themselves over.

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He walked over into the pub and noticed her immediately. She leaned over the bar, four small empty glasses in front of her. The cigarette had long since been put out. She didn't look up when he took a seat on the stool to her right.

"So, how was your date with my mother?" She said suddenly, still not looking up. He thought she was too out of it to notice his existence.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Ms. Jones." He had been taken aback by her tone: bitter and hopeless and utterly deflated. Martha Jones had always been one of his feistier companions, but now she had a biting quality that hadn't been there before. It unnerved him.

"One thing you should know about Francine: She has no idea about deleting call logs. I know she called you, Doctor."

"Don't you think it's a little early to be drinking?" He said, changing the subject. She was nursing her fifth whiskey at 10:43 in the morning in a basically empty bar.

"Don't you think it's a bit late to try and pretend like you care?" She retorted with a bitter chuckle.

It stung, particularly since it wasn't true. She had drifted farther from him than he'd hoped.

"I do care. I've always cared. How can you even say that?" He was sad, hurt, angry, and completely useless. He wasn't even sure if he was helping or hurting. "Your mother called me because she cares about you. She's worried. I'm worried."

"Well don't." She said, her face stone. "I'm fine."

"You must've picked that up from me." The Doctor muttered, noting his infamous lie on her lips.

"You're not fine. You're just so completely not. Look at you: you were so excited to help, to take your exams and finally become a doctor. To get your family back on their feet. You saved the world and you saved me. Now, you're a filthy, stumbling drunk with nothing to show for your hard work but the stench." His tone was scathingly harsh and his words seemed to slither from between his clenched teeth. She thought she knew all of his faces: she'd seen angry Doctor, sad Doctor, giddy Doctor, brilliant Doctor, not-Doctorly-at-all Doctor. But she'd never seen disgusted Doctor, certainly not a Doctor disgusted with her. The way he looked at her now was worse than when he hadn't look at her at all. Suddenly, she felt an emotion well up inside of her that she hadn't felt for so long: shame.

"It's so hard," She began, her voice quivering with emotion. "I see them everywhere. Walking around, laughing, and complaining… and I should be happy. I should be proud. But all I see is their deaths. The men, women and children that I supposedly 'saved'. So many of them died. I couldn't get to them in time." When she suddenly began to shake with sobs, he felt guilty all over again. He knew she was in a fragile state. He shouldn't have snapped at her. He pulled her into his arms.

"I know. Martha, I know. I've been there. I understand why you didn't tell your family, but why didn't you call me? Why not come to me? Or let me find someone to help you?" His tone softened to something almost tender as he held her.

"You just seemed to adjust so well, and talking to anyone else might've gotten me sectioned. The alcohol is my only escape; the only way to a dreamless sleep without the nightmares. It's bad enough during the day, but the nights are much worse. I can't sleep in the dark, I can't sleep sober period..." She said with a self-deprecating chuckle. "And I just can't seem to outrun the demons." She dried her tears with his tie. Oddly, she finally felt like she was mending.

It was one of the few times he could say he knew exactly what she was feeling.

"Come on." He paid her tab and led her out of the bar. She didn't protest, but she stopped short at the TARDIS.

"Just one trip. Promise." The Doctor reassured her as he guided her through the door. He set the coordinates and his sentient vehicle whirred happily through the vortex, finally having both her thief and her stray back where they belonged. She even landed softly, with more of a _sway_ than a _bang_.

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When he ushered her out of the door, she was struck by the beauty of the sight. Even through her whiskey haze, she enjoyed the sight of soft, honey colored grass against a wine- hued sky. They were on top of a great hill, only the grass, trees and small nocturnal creatures to bear witness.

"Twilight on Shallacatop," was his only explanation as he sat on the grass and motioned for her to do the same. The air was crisp and fresh, but not cold. It cleared her head just a bit.

They sat there watching the planets triple moons rise in succession, then finally she spoke. She talked about sleeping in sewers to avoid The Master's men, he told her about The Nightmare Child. She told him about the decimation of Japan and he, about the fall of Arcadia. She finally spoke of traveling the world during The Year that Never Was and he revealed the secrets of The Last Great Time War in the light of the triple moons.

Both breaking down

Both building back up

Both hearts lighter

Both wars suspended in the air; no longer being fought amongst themselves within their bodies.

Neither hurt, neither healed: Just recovering.

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**This turned out a lot better than I though originally. Review if you like it!**

**xoxo, LPL**


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